The Last Man
by Margot Harwood
Summary: The moments following Mr. Darcy's first proposal from his perspective. Heavy angst.


Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire had long believed he would never feel a sadness as deep as he had felt watching his beloved father sicken and eventually die. Surviving the passing of the Darcy patriarch had, he believed, prepared him to weather any other storm which may befall him over the course of his life.

He had always believed himself to be composed and rational. He prided himself on his careful consideration of all elements of his business and personal affairs. His composure and attention to detail were the areas in which he was most dissimilar from his father, who had been a vivacious and passionate man. Despite the example set by his parents, Mr. Darcy had always assumed he would marry a woman of title and pedigree with little thought of love, which he felt belonged more in children's story books than his personal life. He adored his sister. He was close with his small group of friends. Anything beyond this seemed a foolish daydream.

It was therefore a shock beyond any he had heretofore experienced in his life when he found himself desperately and passionately in love with a country gentleman's daughter who had neither fortune nor connections to recommend her. The shock was compounded when he found himself, quite unexpectedly and almost without conscious thought, offering her his hand in marriage.

He recalled as a child asking his father how he had been certain of his love for the late Mrs. Darcy, and the smile on the older gentleman's face as he explained that she had cut a piece of his heart away and carried it with her always. As a boy this had horrified him, and did not sound in the least bit pleasant, but his father had assured him all would make sense in due time. As the young Mr. Darcy grew he began to regard his father's colorful declaration as a bit of nostalgic fantasy so far from reality as to be nearly fiction. His father loved his mother, this he knew. But his parents had always seemed the exception and not the rule. Preoccupied first with his studies, then with the managing of his estate, Mr. Darcy had put the idea from his mind.

It was not until several years later, as he rode away from Hertfordshire and a certain fine-eyed young woman, when he suddenly understood. A piece of himself had been cut out, and he knew exactly where it had gone. He felt it as keenly as he had felt the crack in his bone when he had tumbled out of a tree as a boy.

So he found himself in the dreary sitting room of a modest parsonage looking into the fine eyes he had so often dreamed about and declaring his passionate undying love to one Elizabeth Bennet, who held so much of his heart he feared he could not safely be parted from her. And it was these same fine-eyes that held his gaze so defiantly as she took that heart and crushed it beneath her well worn boot.

His first instinct was rage. How dare this women refuse him? She would never receive any other offer from so great a man as himself. Did she not hear when he told her he loved her? Did she not know who he was? Did she not care that he struggled to breathe when she entered a room?

Next came the embarrassment. He had made a fool of himself, of his name and his family. Blathering on about love and admiration like a young girl who has read too many novels. His face felt hot, his cravat too tight. He had shamed his entire line stooping so low as to make an offer to this woman.

Finally the pain. A throb radiating throughout his body. If given the option, he would have chosen to relive the final days of his father's life rather than experience this gutting. He is aware that he is running away. That he bolted from that ridiculous parsonage like a spooked horse, his entire being unsure of what to do. He thought for a split second of pleading with her. In the cold silence before he wished her well and walked out of her life forever the only word his brain seemed able to form was _please._

 _Please, please, please._

But a Darcy does not beg. Burning with shame, each step he takes away from her makes his stomach turn. He is vaguely amazed that his limbs still seem to work, and that they know to carry him back to Rosings Park and through the servants entrance so as to be concealed from the rest of the house. He is not certain how long it takes him to return to his room. He cannot recall if anyone speaks to him along the way. He finds himself standing just inside the door of his quarters and staring into the space as if it is a foreign land. He still clutches his hat in his hand.

 _The last man in the world._

It is almost comical. He would laugh if he remembered how. Standing in his quarters he is now absolutely certain Elizabeth Bennet is the love of his life. He knows it the way his father told him he would. He knows it in every part of his soul. He knows it and he also knows without any doubt that she will never have him. He will not see her again. He may be laughing. He may have stopped breathing. His legs, moments ago so faithful in bringing him away from her, now have forgotten how to move so he stands bolted to the floor. The sun outside seems to taunt him. He is suddenly aware that he can't feel his heart beating. Somehow this makes sense to him, it seems appropriate. He left it with her. He has never been more alone. He is a Darcy and this woman has reduced him to nothing. He wonders if her hair is soft to the touch, if her skin smells like lavender, what her fingers would feel like entwined with his own. He wonders and he tries to breathe. His mouth tastes like ash.

She said no.

The room is cold.


End file.
